maskormenacelogs | gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.

[ This might, in fact, be a terrible idea. Andy can't be sure — what the hell does she understand about teenagers? She hasn't been a teenager in some six thousand years. The two teenagers that she sees regularly include one, her son (decidedly not normal, hence this entire thing), and two, her husband (who isn't actually a teenager, thanks to technology from a galaxy far, far away). Her frame of reference is limited. She is definitely not cool with the kids. She knows shit all.

But Archie's right. Martin needs friends his age. He needs to learn how to... Be fifteen years old. And that's what Richie is for.

She considers asking Richie to take it easy on Martin. But honestly, she's not even sure what the fuck that would actually mean. So, instead, as she lets Richie inside, all she says is: ]

Remember, he's shy. [ That hardly begins to describe all of Martin's baggage, but. Well. Andy glances back over her shoulder into the house, calling out: ] Martin! Come down here, kiddo. Got someone for you to meet.

Edited 2020-02-02 04:05 (UTC)

[ He's just about as scrawny as he looked on the Network. Puberty hasn't done much for the kid yet, but fuck it. Andy wasn't more than eight or nine years old when her mother first flung her into battle — literally. Size isn't everything. Andy herself doesn't look like anything special. Average height, for a woman. In good shape, sure, but not especially muscular. If anything, she just looks.. Tired?

Out in the backyard, she's standing there with a cigarette hanging loosely from her mouth, gesturing with one hand towards Richie. ]

Come on. Let's see what we're working with. Give me your best shot.

[after some delay, there's footsteps on the stairs, and the Martin in question appears at the landing, his hair a bit of a bedheaded mess and eyes blinking blearily. left to his own devices, he's very apt to simply napping since that harrowing journey to another world -- napping, because proper, long sleep is a trap for dreaming.

so here he is, a glorious first impression.]

Andy? Who--?

[before he really lets himself ask, he cuts short at the sight of a stranger, staying where he is.]

[Richie, who hadn't brought along his baseball bat for this, squints up at Andy. How hard could it be, he reasons. Sure, she's in good shape, and sure she's immortal, but Pennywise was an evil immortal clown monster and Richie still knocked him on the head with a baseball bat, and he was trying to kill them. Andy's just trying to make him better at hitting shit.

Richie cracks his knuckles, like a tough guy, then charges forward with a shriek, putting all his momentum into swinging his fist at her stomach. It's probably immediately obvious that if this kid ever won a fight, he had a lot of backup, or the people he was fighting were worse than he is—he's sloppy, and as fast as he is he has no real idea of how to use that to his advantage.]

[Richie is not entirely a normal thirteen-year-old, either, given that just before he came here he helped kill a child-eating clown, but that's not something he's going to blab about. It's not a huge secret, but—some things he just doesn't feel like talking about. Especially not with someone who's shy and hasn't been told about the birds and the bees just yet. Probably? Maybe?

Anyway, Richie has a backpack full of comics and video games, and a portable console, and more sugary snacks than two teenagers can hope to eat by themselves. He'd thought about bringing along a nudie, but—nah, that'd be a bit much for a first meeting.]

Roger that, that's a no on the clubhouse. [There's no clubhouse just yet, although Richie's been scoping out places here and there. As soon as Martin comes into view, Richie rolls forward onto the tips of his toes and pushes his glasses up, then waves hello.] Hey!

This is my kid, Martin.

[ She gestures towards the rumpled, nervous creature that has appeared. Then, gesturing over at their guest: ]

Martin, Richie. Richie, Martin. [ A little lackluster, as far as introductions go, but hell. She's the mom here — it's not her job to be cool, right? ] Have fun. Try not to set anything on fire. If you're going to drink, go easy and don't fuck with the sketchy shit I keep under the bathroom sink. Absolutely no throwing up on the carpet. Alright?

[ He is right about that — whatever her other quirks are, Andy is decidedly human. As far as she knows, anyway. She's certainly not much of a monster. She's more... Ambiguously middle-aged.

But hell, she moves fast. And smooth. Like she's done this over and over again, to the point where the muscle memory is perfect. It helps, of course, that her opponent right now is a teenager who yelled loud enough for the entire neighborhood to know that he was about to charge her. It takes minimal energy to sidestep him, grab him by the back of his shirt, and spin him back around. ]

You're quick. [ She muses idly, letting go of him so he can make another swing at her if he wants. ] Fucking sloppy too. But we can fix that.

[Martin blinks. have fun with what? set what on fire? drinking...wait, what stuff under the sink???]

Um.

[he's lost, plainly. first it was meet, now it's...not set things on fire.]

Sorry, uh. What...what do you want me to do, now?

[he's too groggy for this.]

You wound me, ma’am, I’d never set fire to anything but people’s hearts. [He says, as if his experience in that department doesn’t amount to crushing on a couple boys and being utterly in love with his best friend.] I swear there’ll be no touching the sketchy moonshine under the sink.

[For effect, he clicks his heels, and raises one hand like he’s swearing in on a Bible, before letting it drop. Then he turns to Martin with a bright grin and a poorly-disguised wink that says, I am definitely breaking into the sketchy shit under the sink.]

Wanna play Street Fighter with me? I brought a portable copy and snacks. [A pause.] Shit, I didn’t ask, you allergic to anything?

Edited 2020-02-03 04:53 (UTC)

Wha—

[Okay, that was—unexpected, to say the least. Richie is only saved from sprawling out onto his face by Andy’s hand on his shirt, having not registered her moving until it was too late. Okay. So maybe this is going to be harder than the clown was.

When she lets go, he aims a kick at her shin, to knock her feet out from under her. It’s a move he saw done in a movie, and if it worked then, surely it’ll work here, right? Right?]

[ Oh ho, the shin kick! Scrappy. No technique at all, but who needs it really? Andy might know a dozen different ways to break a man's neck, but she'll play dirty when it suits her. If it's life or death, honor matters less than survival. She's seen enough bloody battlefields to know that it doesn't make any difference how fair you fought if you end up bleeding out in the mud anyway.

It's with an almost kind of lazy grace that she moves to counter his attack, smoke still wisping from the cigarette at her mouth as she steps back out of the way — then steps down, right onto the offending foot, her boot pressing against his laces to pin his shoe underneath her own.

Mildly, she quips: ] That all you got?

[ Andy gives Richie a little look like she's not 100% buying that whole ma'am business — but fuck it, as long as nobody gets maimed and the house doesn't burn down, she's willing to let boys be boys.

Reaching out, she puts her hand on Martin's shoulder briefly, giving it a light squeeze before she gently nudges him in Richie's direction. ]

Go ahead. Go hang out. [ With a twinge of wryness: ] Or whatever the hell it is kids your age do these days.

Fuck you, you ain't seen nothing yet! [She has, actually. Scrappy as he is in a fight, the things that Richie knows pale pretty hugely in comparison, and he knows that. But shit, he wants to impress her, wants to show that there's something to be made out of him. So when she traps his foot and he can't yank it out, he decides, well, he's in reach.

And tries to shove her back with all the strength he can muster.]

[Martin is moved forward, himself looking bewildered by it, looking over his shoulder to Andy and then to Richie and back again a couple times as understanding of the instruction seeps in.]

Um...well. I, I don't think so. Allergies, I mean? Sorry. Uh...Hi. Um. Fighting...street fighting? [his eyes wince.] I, I guess, but...

[Shifting his voice to sound like a cranky old man (that he delivers newspapers to):] Kids these days with their dirty dancin’ and street-fightin’. In my day, we youngsters went a-clown-killin’. [Which is actually true, but couched in a joke like that, it just seems like another of Richie’s off-color jokes.

In his normal voice:] It’s a video game, we’re not gonna be picking fights in the street. I’m more of a lover, not a fighter, you see. [Also, glasses are expensive and Richie doesn’t have his parents around to pay for a spare pair.] And good, because if you did have allergies we woulda been fucked, I only brought junk food and a PB&J sandwich.

[A very sloppily-made sandwich.]

[ But she already knows. She knows there's potential there. Sure, she hasn't bothered to tell him that — humility a good pupil makes — but there's a lot to be said for stubborn and scrappy when it comes to a fight for survival. Kid has spirit. You can't teach that shit.

He'd be easy prey for a schoolyard bully as it is right now, but it's nothing some practice won't fix. ]

Alright — [ She lets him shove at her, bracing so that the force only makes her sway backward a little — kid's going to need to put on a bit of muscle too, if that skinny teenage frame can manage it — and grabbing him by the wrists, she casually twists and throws him bodily to the ground. ] Good enough. You have a long fucking way to go, but it's not hopeless.

[As far as fights go, this is not actually the most embarrassing one Richie's ever lost in. Yeah, some part of him is embarrassed he lost a fight to somebody's mom, but he's also realistic enough to recognize that six thousand years means Andy's been in a lot of fights.

He gets to his feet, dusting his shirt off and wiping away the dirt on his face. Then he spits out what got into his mouth and makes a face. Thank god Eddie's not here, because he'd likely never let Richie live this down.]

So, what, [briefly adopting a voice uncannily similar to Apollo Creed:] you fight great, but I'm a great fighter, is that what you're saying?

[Martin stares at him in continued bewilderment. this kid changes tones and gears faster than most any he's ever managed to speak to for more than a minute; he's immediately worried he's not going to be able to keep up.

Andy wants him to try, though, so...

while picking at his elbow:] Um. Uh, so...I know what video games are, but...I never tried them. Played them, I mean. I just watched once or twice. So...if I can watch, that might work best. Right?

[Richie reaches out a hand to gently clap Martin on the shoulder, unperturbed.]

All right. And then maybe you can play something easy if you ever decide you're sick of watching. [Does Richie have an easy video game in his bag? Shit. He'll burn that bridge when he gets to it.] What've you got in your room? Books, comics, movies, anything?

[he wobbles a little in-hand, getting redder in the face. with Richie taking the conversational lead, Martin doesn't have a chance to utter a "sorry" as he's prone to -- he's just got to try and keep up!]

M-my room? Um. Well, there's...books, yes. And, and my keyboard. And the yarn...

[as he lists them off, he very slowly looks over his shoulder for sign of Andy.]

[ TOO BAD MARTIN, because Andy has apparently decided this is a sink or swim situation for her adopted son and vanished to take a smoke on the back porch or something. Whatever happens now is in the hands of a higher power. GANBATTE, SON. ]

[ He's right about that — she's definitely been in a lot of fights. Maybe you'd think she would have tried to diversify more in six or seven millennia, but Andy comes from warrior stock, and she never strayed far from that for too long. Human nature, maybe. She never became a famous philosopher, she never solved any great mysteries, she never created some masterpiece — she just got really, really good at killing people.

The Rocky reference doesn't land. She stopped trying to keep track of movies a while ago, and the internet's another one of those things she never got very good at, so she mostly squints at Richie a little when he does "the voice." ]

Hate to break it to you, kid — you're a terrible fighter. [ She keeps puffing away at her cigarette as she gives him a chance to dust himself off: ] You're clumsy. And you advertise your moves from a mile away. Which would be fine if you were built like a tank, but. [ Andy gestures at his whole. Everything. ] It's going to be speed and cheap shots with you. That's how you'll win. Or at least buy enough time to run.

[Tough crowd. Richie has one reaction to tough crowds, and it’s this:]

I am a lover, not a fighter. Just ask my friends’ moms back in Derry, they’ll tell you. [They would probably all call him that weird, bug-eyed kid with the voices, in all honesty. But anyway, pithy joke said, Richie stuffs his hands back into his pockets, listening attentively. Clumsy he kind of knew, already—puberty is a gift—but advertising his moves? Yeah, that’s new.]

Yeah, I’m pretty good at running. Gotta be, if you’re a Loser.

[There’s a weight to the word: Loser, he says, like it’s important, like he’s proud. Welcome to the Losers’ Club.]

If I had a baseball bat with me, would that improve my chances? Like—[and he mimes taking a swing with one.] I knocked a clown flat on its ass with one, the one time. [It, not his or her or their. It, like he’s talking about something not human.] That means I’m good at that, right?

[Ganbatte indeed, considering this is Richie.]

You have a keyboard? Holy shit, that’s great. Do you play in a band or something? Girls throw themselves at guitarists more, but I know some people like a guy who plays the keyboard. [in a conspiratorial whisper:] It means they’re good with their hands.

[There probably is a higher power, because Richie doesn’t use a lewd gesture to emphasize just what he means. But it’s got a sense of humor because he winks.]

What kinda books do you have? Hope it’s not just school shit. [Pause.] You have yarn? What do you do with it?

[there's some nodding and headshaking and some nodding corrected to headshaking and it all leads to a puzzled head-tilt as he finally gets his nodding, shaking head above the water of all this.]

Um. I-I make things. Scarves. Sweaters, uh--well. Just, just the one time. It's just small things. Right now. Sorry, um. The books? [he squints.] I don't...I haven't been to a school, so I don't think they're school books. [they definitely are.]

I can show you? They're...they're upstairs.

[ He is a weird, bug-eyed kid that does voices — but she's not judging. He can say whatever the hell he wants really, not like it's going to hurt her feelings. At a certain point in her long ass life, she just stopped caring enough for that. But she can tell he's paying attention — and that's the important bit. ]

A Loser, huh. [ She picked up on the emphasis, even if she doesn't know the meaning of it. ] Well. Long as you don't end up a bloody smear of Loser on the pavement, I guess.

[ Her dwindling cigarette finally gets flicked away. She gives him a little look as she smothers the stub in the dirt underneath her boot. ]

Do I even want to know why you were assaulting a clown? [ Not that she's particularly fond of clowns, but. ] Being armed usually helps. As long as you know what you're doing. If you don't, it's just something for the other fucker to take from you and beat your ass with.

'S'why I'm here.

[He stuffs his hands in his pockets, starts to seemingly, aimlessly pace. With anyone else, Richie would be loathe to say much more about it, but Andy's six thousand years old, right? And she's been here a very long time. So if there's any adult who might stand a chance of at least not thinking he's cracked, it's her.

Also, he didn't bring his bat, so he's looking for some rocks to throw. Not a whole lot of decently-sized rocks for a rock war here, so he has to settle for pebbles to collect while he talks.]

It killed and ate kids back home in Derry. Ended up eating the wrong kid, so we went after it. [He pauses.] It didn't look like a clown to everyone, it changed to look like whatever you were scared of, but I think it liked being a clown best. That's what it looked like when it was trying to scare all of us, not just one.

We killed it fucking dead. At least I'm pretty sure we did. I knocked it flat with a bat, my friend shot it in the head, it fell down a well and everything. [That's what he remembers, anyway, but his memory of that fight's going a little fuzzy around the edges.]

But it was overconfident, y'know? Like, it didn't expect us to come in and fuck it right up—[And then he tosses a pebble towards Andy.]

If they're about physics or English or math, they definitely count as school books. Even if you're not in school.

[Those are some very broad definitions there. Anyway, Richie lights up at the prospect.]

Fuck yeah, show me!

[well, action is easier than conversation, so Martin won't hesitate for very long at all now that he has a task. he hurries upstairs and down the short hallway to his room, pushing the door all the way open so it stays that way for Richie and himself wanders in partway, turning around and looking at things to try and decide what's worth noting.

for a boy's room, it's hardly the worst: a couple bits of clothing not taken to the laundry room, a bed unmade (he just got up, ok!!), some stray lengths of yarn dangling off the desk...]

Uh, the books are here, so-- [he gestures to the stack on the side of the desk not occupied by heaps of yarn and wool: spelling books and very young readers' stuff. things about fish and airplanes and zoos. it's honestly about as basic and baby and not-cool-kid as one could be, but to be fair, Martin's not even tried the concept.] I, uh. I haven't been practicing as much as...as I could be. But sometimes I get new things from the library. So.

[wow, his face is red and his heart is racing from anxious embarrassment. like, more than usual! it's almost like he's worried about how lame he is reflecting poorly on him in front of someone enthusiastic and new!

this sucks!

he clears his throat.]

The, the keyboard is over there...

[on the floor along the wall by the bed, headphones still plugged in and on the nightstand. nothing terribly huge -- something he can have in his lap without too much discomfort.

it definitely has a keyboard stand that is not being used because........who knows.]

[ Honestly?

It's not even the weirdest shit she's heard since she got here. She's met robots and aliens. Gods. Vampires. Clones. The works. Nowadays, a murderous kid-eating fear-clown doesn't actually seem all that absurd. Takes her a moment to process the idea, her eyebrows pinched together as she tries to picture it — but after a moment, she seems to just accept his story as the truth, humming out a little noise of acknowledgment.

Tough kids, taking on a thing like that.

She opens her mouth, maybe to say something along those lines — but the words drop dead in her mouth as something hard bounces off her fucking forehead. The pebble falls to the ground in front of her, right between her boots. Her eyebrows pinch again. She gives Richie a look. ]

You could have at least used a bigger fucking rock. [ There's a tiny little red mark where the pebble hit her — or is there? Funny, but it seems to be gone already. She doesn't seem deterred either way, instead pointing out across the yard by the tree where there's a small branch that's broken off. ] Go pick that up. Show me your clown-killing technique.

Practicing reading? [There's a surprise. Andy said he was sheltered, but Richie hadn't quite known the extent up until—well, right now.] Jesus. Where'd you live until you got here, under a fucking rock or something?

[He doesn't say this is lame, because—well, yeah, it is lame, but Martin was sheltered, apparently to such a point where he's only just learning to read, so Richie will let it slide. And then his attention is quickly distracted by the keyboard, so he puts his bag (still opened, so a veritable flood of comics and potato chip bags spill out) on the bed and goes to check it out.]

Hey, can you play something for me? [No requests, like he'd usually ask. Most of what Richie can think to request is out for this first meeting. He'll ease Martin into his favorite bands in the future.] Anything you can think of.

[freshly embarrassed, Martin's ears are bright red as he gulps, anxiously rubbing and picking at his elbow. he wishes Andy had given him some warning, because then maybe...well. he can't really say he'd have known how to prepare, but...]

N-no. Just. Uh, well. I wasn't...supposed to read. [he shrugs his shoulders up feebly, watching Richie's bag of many things spill out onto the bed.] Nobody was, really. So...

[so thankfully, talk is steering toward something else.

unthankfully, it's to the keyboard.]

Oh--um. I don't know. I just kind of... Press keys in whatever way. You, uh. [he gestures.] You put the headphones on. So it's only you who hears it. You can try.

gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.

andy + richie + martin

andy + richie

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